I try a local bar. Three older men sit around a table outside, smoking and drinking that horrible French spirit which goes cloudy when you add water, like TCP does.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," I say. "I'm here from a British magazine to discover why this populist surge has swept France."
One of them, Jean-Luc, pauses for a long moment. "I would say that perhaps France has some experience of what happens when a country elects a right-wing authoritarian who likes to blame everything on people from a religious minority." He leans in. "My father was in the maquis."
On his left, Antoine takes up the tale. "The thing is, the political class don't listen to people like us. People call us extremists, but we just want someone who will make sure that the lights stay on and not do something stupid, like take us out of the European union. Beyond that -", he shrugs, "I am relatively happy. This is a great time to be alive, isn't it? I still have all my teeth. There is no war."
The final man, François, chips in. "I remember the "good old days". Merde! Did you know our service stations only gave up those toilets where it's two footplates and a hole about 15 years ago?" He shakes his head. "I would like a little more globalisation, frankly."